The Ashes of Phoenix
by DoctorWholigan
Summary: A very short fic, concentrating on Trooper Jeraven Danth as he and his regiment struggle through the post-apocalyptic warzone of Phoenix Island. Set approximately fifty years after the 3rd war for Armageddon.


Around the fire sat the remnants of the once-proud and planet-wide famous Regiment, the Catachan XXI, the 'Blackblades', named for the infamous knives they carried of their deathworld homes. Trooper Danth counted 10 men in all, from a number that should have been another 10 times that. The figures, dressed in shabbily kept and rapidly deteriorating green fatigue uniforms kept huddled to the fire, huge mounds of scrap around them blocking out the winds that howled in the night. Colonel Ripley had said to keep the men to the inner piles at the Quay, to better fend off whatever might come at them. Looking over, Danth saw Trooper Storm asleep beside the crackling warmth of the flames, reminiscent of the burning fires that leapt from the monstrous heavy flamer unit he was using to prop his head up off the rubble-strewn ground. No matter. Orks, Chaos worshippers, Eldar... A squad of 10 guardsmen was easy pickings. Danth held no illusions that either the Emperor was testing them, or they were truly alone.   
  
The most perceptive of those not engaged in idle chatter, or asleep, a dull 'clunk' of metal caught the attention of his ear. He tilted his head slightly, eyes diverting to the makeshift tent that Ripley had set up, and was coming out of then. Ripley was impressive. A hulking man, even by Catachan standards, he filled the suit of Adeptus Astartes power armour he had ripped from one of the heretic's corpses with nothing but a rippling bulk of muscle, bulging arms left uncovered by the heavy and restricting armour. His jaw as always was set determinedly, a cigar stub that was perpetually unlit clamped between his teeth. In the darkness, Danth could just make out the Ork-hide eyepatch over the Colonel's left eye - a little souvenier from Ghazzghkull Thraka himself. He was 67, and greying hair alone wasn't the only sign to that. Face haggard and lined with a look of having borne all the cares in the universe since the dawn of the Imperium, Ripley was hardly a handsome man. But then, Danth conceded, it was not a place to be a handsome man.   
  
"You hear that?" he barked across the campsite, half the men still oblivious to the grating of their commander's voice, the other half too tired or drunk to care.   
  
Danth made his reply short and concise, as the Colonel liked it. "Yessir. Came from over the pile there, skimmer parts. Too small for Ork... Maybe Grots?"   
  
Ripley's face screwed up, merely lining the pitted skin further. "Equip yourself. You'll come with me. Point."   
  
With that said, Riply disappeared into his tent again, presumably to prepare for one of the forays into the scrap that would often be heralded as the wily old Colonel's last mission. Bets were being placed amongst the belligerent Troopers even as Danth scooped up his Triplex-pattern lasgun.   
  
"Emperor's teeth, you lot _disgust_ me," he spat violently, the liquid projectile hissing in the flames like an Ork on the business end of a plasma cannon, "get off your plague-ridden behinds and come out to _do_ something. You're _Guardsmen_, not Hivers. Act like it."   
  
It was the same routine every night. The Troopers merely gave the ranking Grunt a one-fingered salute and sent him on his way. 

* * *

  
  
Ripley raised a brow slightly as the pair - he and Danth, as it always was - stalked through the rubble of the once proud and prosperous Quay. During the Ork's invasion, it had been one of the primary targets, even the shattered husks of buildings left standing could testify to what must have once been a great place, trading posts, manufactoriums... Now, just a hunk of tinfoil in the dirt. Using every scrap of cover - Catachans they were, jungle fighters by nature, but cover is cover - they advanced together on the source of the noise, Danth with his lasgun raised to his shoulder, Ripley with a belt-fed bolter held at hip-level to spray whatever came at them with .50 calibre death.   
  
The pair approached the last rise, and looked over... There were no Orks, Grots, Chaos cultists... A lone teen from one of the few human settlements could be seen to stagger his way aimlessly around the garbage, looking for them, Danth knew. The Blackblades were famous, and this one was like the rest: Come to add his name to the list of legends. If like the rest, he was pounded into the dust in his first fight, there was no loss. If like Danth, he lived, he would rise - perhaps to become even like the great Colonel Ripley. Said Colonel let out a gruff chuckle and tossed his bolter to Danth, the ammo belt clinking like fine silverware on some upperhive dining table, stepping out over their encroachment. The boy practically ran over, throwing a moderately respectful, if not totally pathetic salute to both Ripley and the Trooper with Ripley.   
  
"You out here all by yourself, son?" asked Ripley, his tone ever-acid and as condescending as he could manage.   
  
"Yessir!" chirped the youngster all too quickly. Another yes-man. Danth had seen three of them go in as many months. "I want to be a Blackblade, jus' like my Dad, Ripp Storm!"   
  
Danth couldn't help but snort derisively, until Ripley shot him a look. Let the child have his heroes. "What makes you think you're ready, son? There's a lot that needs to be done in a Freedom Fighter's unit... You've got to be able to shoot straight, shut your trap when we're trying stealth tactics, and most of all-" he jabbed a glaived hand into the youth's chest, "keep a uniform looking respectable."   
  
Danth straightened up, pulling his shoulders back. The youth jutted his chin out indignantly, "If that's all you want me to do, I'll make Sergeant in a week!"   
  
Let him try, mused Danth.


End file.
